


who told you that you were naked?

by acid_glue234



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7879441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Genesis 3:4-5</p><p>/</p><p>/</p><p>She pauses above you and opens her eyes, and you're met with brown instead of green, and you sigh. You're not disappointed, you try to tell yourself; you're relieved it's not her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i like the way the 100 and other forms of media incorporate parallels from the Bible, so i thought i'd try my hand at it. not meant to offend, just trying to be creative :) enjoy!

Between woes and passion, survival and sanctuary, you find yourself above the sheets and underneath a warm body, hands sliding down your torso, lips kissing up your neck, and you keen at the feel of her worship, and you try your best not to compare her lips to another pair that you remember all too clearly for only one shared kiss.

Her lips were gentle, questioning—these lips are not.

They beg and they push and they're hot with a ferocity to seek pleasure without love, and you convince yourself that this is what you want, what you need, because it distracts from the truth.

Another thing that distracts from the truth, disrupts the moment, disturbs the liquid atmosphere—a knock on your door.

She pauses above you and opens her eyes, and you're met with brown instead of green, and you sigh. You're not disappointed, you try to tell yourself; you're relieved it's not her.

(Dreams, not nightmares. Fantasies, not reality.)

Your head is spinning, high off of expectations and false joy, too much drink, and of course, herb—a leafy green herb that you roll up and smoke; makes your head dizzy; makes your thoughts expand; makes your inhibitions wild; makes time slow down.

You're cold above the sheets without her slick, hot skin on top of you to keep you warm. You shiver, stare aimlessly at the ceiling, and then the door creaks open.

You hear a gruff voice, "Sorry to disturb you so late at night, Eden, but Jenko has ordered a meeting for anyone who wishes to attend..."

The messenger's voice tapers off and fades away, and you're mesmerized by the sound of the wind as it blows past your open window.

Eden comes back in no time, slow time, and she informs you of the late night arrival of a wanderer; _a lost traveler_ , she says—a young woman of the night who is seeking refuge, a hot meal, and aid for her injuries.

This does not happen often, as The Garden is not a place known to most. It is well-hidden, rightfully so, meant to protect the innocent villagers who want no part in the Grounder politics of Heda's rule.

(You do not blame these people for staying away. It is why you are here, to begin with—to end with.)

Eden slides underneath the sheets beside you. "It was a night much like this when you first arrived." She means chilly despite the season, overcast despite the daytime sunshine. It's an atmosphere that creates tension, a sticky humidity rising in the air.

Goosebumps form on your skin. You hum to acknowledge her, and then mumble, "I should attend the meeting."

"You're high," Eden points out.

You nod—this is true, but, "I'm also the only healer in the village."

This wanderer needs aid, for whatever injuries she might have attained throughout her journey. When you are high, you are lost, but you are diligent, direct, decisive.

You are—

"You are so good," Eden whispers at your ear, and you smile because you're happy, and you're high, and maybe because it feels good to be above your worries, above your fears, above the clouds, above above _above_.

//

You stumbled upon this place by accident.

It was all up to chance, all one mighty coincidence that led you in this direction, over that hill, under this bridge, behind that structure, and inside this cove that eventually brought you to a village just off the Eastern Shore, a village of sweet dispositions, of passionate life, of welcoming lovers—a place to start over.

After a full year of trekking through the woods, of living day to day on nothing but pure hatred for this world, you relearn what it means to really live and love, and that is to be happy; smoke herb, drink cider, dance, eat, have sex, and then, the next day...

...do it all over again.

//

You've always been curious, even at two in the morning on a chilly, overcast, and humid night. Eden treads beside you, her footsteps heavy, as she's never had to worry about demons or ghosts in the forest.

(You envy her experiences, as she envies yours.)

On the edge of the village, near the ending sea, dozens of villagers gather around a bonfire. You breathe and inhale the saltwater rush of the ocean, and you relish in the sound of the waves as more and more civilians watch and wait, and _there she is_ , someone whispers, and Jenko helps walk the staggering traveler out.

Her face is covered with a black headscarf, nothing but her eyes on display. You sink into the familiarity of her gaze, that greenish hazel stare darting amongst the audience on high alert, watching and waiting and ready, eyes highlighted gold against the unruly flames of the fire.

An uneasiness forms in the pit of your stomach just as the wanderer unwraps her headscarf to reveal her face. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you think you're dying.

(You once heard that in your final stages of life, you see the face of the one you love, or perhaps the one you hate.)

(Your faulty memory fails to remember which.)

But you are not dying—your life is not at risk, though your heart might be; your peace of mind; your pleasant night's sleep. Dying, no, but you are seeing a piece of your past, one you imagined you'd never have to experience again.

But _there she is_ , as regal as ever, even when donned in a disguise of peasantry, even with a busted lip, a bloody nose, a black eye, and a hunched shoulder. She can barely stand; you can tell by her quivering legs and unsteady limp.

Tears flood your eyes before you can will them away, and Eden nods and whispers, "I feel for the lost traveler too. What a poor soul."

Your tears are hot as they race down your cheeks. You feel for her, yes, but you don't know what it is you feel, exactly; hatred, betrayal, animosity, resentment—perhaps all at once, rushing back to you as if it's only been a few days since you last saw the back of her head when she left you and your people to die.

But _there she is_ , as bloody as you last witnessed her—just as terrifying, just as lonely, just as desperate for understanding.

(Your heart is breaking. Apparently once was not enough.)

These villagers amongst you believe in life, in happiness, in growth and prosperity. This woman—no matter how young, how innocent in appearance—believes in war, battle, fighting, a means to an end, _sacrifice_.

She kills. She condemns her warriors to death. She sacrifices the innocent and betrays those in which she claims to care.

You are more than certain that Jenko will deny her entry and banish her from these lands forever and ever.

But he doesn't.

Amongst quiet whispers and noisy mutterings, Jenko tells her to speak for herself, and so she forges a dreadful story about who she is—a Wastelander from the Dead Zone who cared for her deformed sister. She tells of an attack on her home—how that sister was killed by a group of dastardly thieves in the desert, which is the reason she has fled to a sanctuary that will grant her a life of peace.

You itch to call bullshit, to yell it out of the crowd where you stand. She's a liar, you already know. Time can't change that.

(An eternity couldn't change that.)

She is a liar, but the villagers welcome her with opened arms, and you collapse within yourself. Cheers surround you, as all these people know is celebration and happiness, but suddenly all you can hear are war chants. All they know is love and acceptance, while all Lexa knows is blood and torture.

Your people are naive, completely unaware of the fact that this is Leksa kom Trikru, ruthless leader of war and sacrifice; a horrid way of life that these villagers despise so, but as you glance around, the predicament becomes abundantly clear—the villagers don't recognize her at all, as they've perhaps never before seen the Commander's face.

"What is your name, child?" Jenko asks her, once the raucous cheers have died down.

Lexa says her name without a second thought, faster than any honest soul could ever answer. She whispers it, only loud enough for Jenko to hear, but you can read lips, and her response is clear.

"Bekka kom Desertkru!" Jenko repeats in his booming voice, opening his arms wide, almost as wide as his infectious grin. "Welcome to The Garden!"

//

There was no religion in space, only science; facts, odds, numbers, statistics. Religion leaves room for hope, and why have hope when even nature itself, the very thing that's supposed to sustain life, lessens your chances at survival?

Here, on the ground, you find the hope you once thought didn't exist. You find religion in freedom. In release. In waves of ecstasy.

You find tranquility. You find yourself.

But you also find darkness; small pockets of dread, of destruction, of dismay, hidden deep within green, charcoal shadows.

You find Lexa.

(Or maybe she finds you.)

You stand outside of the infirmary hut, and you try to stop your nervous feet from pacing. You watch as other villagers slowly return to their homes for the night, envious of their good night's sleep, as nothing for them has changed in the past hour.

Your life, however, has just been turned upside down, for perhaps the hundredth time since you first arrived on the ground.

With a strangled sigh, you pull the flap aside and enter slowly, and your eyes take in the candles first, flickering gently as they highlight the room in a dim gleam.

But you can't wait for long.

You can't hold back.

You've always been drawn to her, moth to flame, and your eyes meet hers. Her expression changes rapidly, as you knew it would, but not like this—she looks terrified, her eyes suddenly wide, desperate, and teary.

She holds your stare, a mixture of disbelief, relief, and maybe even horror coloring her features. "Clarke," she breathes, practically choking on your name. "I thought you—"

She tries to stand, much too quickly for a person in her haggard state of health, and she crumbles to the floor in pain. You almost reach out for her.

You almost take her into your arms.

(Almost.)

You're a healer, but you fight against every natural instinct in your bones to help.

She groans in agony, teeth clenched around her bottom lip to try and hide the sound of her weakness, but you hear everything—her pain; her sins; her guilt; her betrayal. You can see her weaknesses, clear as the night sky.

More tears threaten to fall, but you take a deep breath, your heavy chest expanding, and you silently watch as she climbs her way back onto the table.

The sight should fill you with delight, to see your enemy struggle so.

(But it's hard to watch.)

She sits, hunched over with a hand grasping at her torso. Before even accessing the damage, you already know she suffers from broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and possibly a sprained ankle.

She stares at the floor now, waiting. She is silent once again, even though it is obvious how much pain she is in.

Her dark rags are drenched in blood. The copper stench tickles at your nostrils, but you withhold the urge to vomit. "Undress," you say, and her eyes snap back to you. A beat of silence, and then she nods, that slow tilt of her head that replace most people's response of a simple yes.

(You used to find the movement endearing; now it only reminds you of a time when everything didn't hurt so much.)

You wait, but she doesn't undress. She only continues to stare at you, and you stare back, waiting, until her wariness becomes clear.

You turn your back to her and wait some more—mostly silence, and then shuffling of clothes, low hisses of pain and groans of displeasure as she tries to maneuver, and you can't take it. No matter what you thought, her pain brings you no satisfaction.

She continues to struggle even as you turn around. She doesn't see you approaching through her purple eye, and she jumps when you lay a gentle hand on her hunched shoulder. You want to say _let me help you_ , but words fail.

(They always do around her.)

After a moment's hesitation, she allows you to assist her in the removal of her clothing. With every rag removed, a new bruise, gash, burn, or thick slice of skin is revealed. You try your best not to cringe at the sight of each screaming wound, but it truly is a wonder how she is even still alive.

Once she's sitting in nothing but her dirty bindings, you make a mental checklist: she'll need ice, alcohol, bucketloads of salve, multiple stitches here and there and even right th—

"Death is really not the end, Clarke," Lexa whispers a little louder this time, her voice full of wonder, but you're quick to hush her.

"I go by a different name now," you mutter between clenched teeth, but she only nods again, slowly, trying to understand, so you add, "You're not the only one who wishes to start over."

You want to ask why she is here. You want to ask what _really_ happened. She is the Commander. She is Heda. She is ruler. And she once took great pride in that, up until you came along and turned her pride into what it really was—shame.

You want to challenge her like you once did, but you are not who you once were, and you refuse to believe that she is too.

Her eyes follow you around the room as you collect what you need. "I do not wish for that," she says, breathing heavily through her bloody nose, around her cracked ribs. "One can never escape the sins of their past."

You withhold the urge to scoff, despite the truth in her words. It seems that is so, seeing as you might never be able to escape her. "In three years, you haven't changed one bit," you say, and then pause in front of her beaten and broken body to add, "How disheartening."

//

Days go by, and Lexa heals as only Lexa can—stubbornly. Her black eye is clearing up slowly, her limp is getting less noticeable, and there is little to no sign of infection.

You give her something for the pain, but the drugs can only do so much for the crumpled mess that is her body; a warrior's body.

Despite her broken bones, dark bruises, and deep wounds, she is still strong, her wiry muscles on full display whenever you enter the infirmary to clean her cuts, check her stitches, or change her bandages.

The only time you speak to her is when you're informing her of her condition. Besides those instances, you remain silent, as does she. You have nothing to say to her—not after three years; not after she deserted you on a mountain with nothing but an iron will to rescue your people from a horror that she feared just as much as you did.

But Lexa is stubborn, hard-headed. She must think herself a goddess, an all-powerful being who can heal overnight, for she pushes herself beyond what she can do.

You can't admire her resolve, her strength. You can't be moved by her will to live, her tenacity and courage.

(You can't.)

If you did, you'd only fall back into her trap, the same trap that left you alone in the wilderness for a year with nothing but a cold heart that took The Garden two years to thaw out.

//

Eden watches you, just as Lexa does, but it's different, somehow.

While Lexa has always stared wondrously, Eden stares worriedly and mentions that you have been acting peculiar. Others say the same, people you have come to know and love, to trust even more than Raven, Bellamy, Octavia, and your own mother.

You've known these people for two years, way longer than you've known Lexa, but she still knows you better. She doesn't question your anger because she knows. She doesn't question your silence because she knows.

(Your resentment. Your pain. Your sadness.)

She knows it all too well, and you want to hate her for it, but here in The Garden, there is no room for hate.

//

Eventually you cross paths with her. How could you not? This village is small, not big enough for the both of you.

She ventures out of the infirmary now, despite your recommendation to rest. There is no other way to heal broken ribs than time and patience, but there is never enough time, and Lexa only has patience when it comes to leading her people, not herself.

You are sitting against a tree along the border of the village, near a narrow stream that Lexa is stumbling down now. You pause in your sketching and watch her, finally able to witness her true movements when she doesn't know you're around.

Minutes go by as you remain quiet and watch her stubbornly try to retrieve a bucket of water from the stream. After her fifth failed attempt, you speak up and say, "You'll pop your stitches trying to carry that bucket."

She startles, dropping the quarter-full bucket on the ground beside her. You want to laugh, but you don't. You let it burn and simmer inside, and you turn that momentary glee into annoyance when Lexa responds with, "If I do not pull my own weight and contribute to the whole, I will be cast aside and left for dead."

"This isn't Tondc, Lexa," you sigh, closing your eyes as you rest your head back against the tree trunk. "You won't get ostracized here for displaying what _you_ might call weakness."

Lexa picks up the bucket and only continues to struggle. She doesn't listen to you, not anymore. When you tell her to stay in bed, she limps around the infirmary instead. When you tell her not to pick at her stitches, she scratches at them. When you tell her to keep her shoulder in a sling, she removes it and holds her arm up herself.

"People die everyday from starvation and war and radiation, Clarke," Lexa says, huffing when she accidentally drops the bucket again, "but all you do is get high, drink, and gorge yourself with food."

It's no shock at all that she's been watching you. She's always watching you, even now as you pick up your piece of charcoal and continue to sketch out the trees in the forest.

"I am living," you defend calmly.

"You are wasting away your potential on a modern day beatnik lifestyle," she exasperates, as if weary of your leisurely activities, as if you have better things to do than be happy, as if there is nothing more to life than struggling for something you already have.

How dare she come to you, you think—a place where you've lived peacefully and freely without her—and criticize your way of life, just as she had three years prior. You are the one who should be exasperated. "It shouldn't surprise me that you'd rather fight needlessly than live in peace."

"I have fought all my life, Clarke. Fighting is all I know," Lexa says, but she sounds exhausted.

You almost advise her to rest, but you know she won't listen to you. "You don't have to fight anymore, Lexa," you say instead. "Not here."

Lexa looks at you, still broken, still pretending she's not. "No matter where I am, Clarke, my fight will never be over," she says, and you'd accuse her of being overdramatic if not for the morbid truth in her words.

//

She says you don't need cider and drink, but you like the gritty haze. She says you waste your potential smoking herb and indulging in bodily pleasures for no other gain besides orgasmic satisfaction, but you do it anyway.

If she doesn't have to listen, neither do you. If she doesn't have to follow your orders, you don't have to follow hers.

She is not your commander. She commands no one here, no one but her own demons that rest heavy on her shoulders, full of regret, full of hardships, full of the need for a redemption story.

 _How did I end up here_ , reads all over her face, as she watches you from afar, as you take Eden into your arms and lead her back to your hut.

You know she's watching, and you hope it pains her to see you with another, with anyone who is not her.

//

Before the Ark, before the end times, before the radiation, children believed in a jolly old man named Saint Nicholas. The whole idea surrounding his existence is absolutely absurd, but the hope that it gave children every year is not.

Jenko is that hope, here in The Garden. Children look up to him. They trust and believe in him, and they listen to his guidance, no matter how ludicrous.

Some may say we follow blindly.

But we are all just lost sheep, searching for a shepherd to lead us home.

Jenko is that fearless shepherd, and he approaches you one afternoon in the supper line to say, "You are close to Bekka."

"I wouldn't say close," you murmur, moving up in line when it starts to drag forward.

Jenko moves along behind you. "You may not think so, but she's drawn to you," he reveals, as if that's something you haven't already known for three years now. "She needs you."

Lexa needs no one but herself, and she makes that abundantly clear every time you try to help her stand or eat or do anything that won't put her through anymore pain than she's already in.

"Bekka is healing fine on her own," you lie.

"Her outer wounds are healing, yes, but there is something deeper within that is also damaged," Jenko says, serving himself a hearty spoonful of squirrel casserole. "It can be healed if we teach her our ways, but she will only listen to you."

You find it hilarious that Jenko thinks Lexa would ever listen to you. If she won't take your medical advise, there is no way in hell she'd ever take your spiritual advise.

"There is something special about this one," he adds, moving ahead in line to dump some cabbage from the garden on his plate. "She shares a name with the first commander, you know. That means something."

 _Yeah, it means Lexa sucks at coming up with aliases_ , and you smile at your quick wit, but Jenko must take your rare grin as a sign to go on.

"We all understand pain, but only some of us can balance our pain with love. Meet her in the middle," Jenko advises, adding a potato to his plate full of food. "She will be waiting for you there."

//

Lexa saw you with Eden, but she doesn't say so.

She has too much pride to ask _why her_ , to wonder if you love her, to inquire how deep your affair goes.

Today, the silence is deafening as you clean her wounds and change her bandages. The air is thick with words unsaid, promises broken, feelings unrequited.

You fill the stuffy silence to help yourself breathe. "If they discover who you really are, you'll be banished, you know."

Lexa ticks her jaw and breathes through her nose. "Will they see me as you do? As a ruthless leader who spills blood?"

She is testing you, challenging you. She wants to know how you see her without outwardly asking how you see her. She doesn't want you to know how much your opinion of her matters.

(You know anyway.)

(But you don't give her the satisfaction of knowing too.)

"These are not your people, Lexa," you say, wrapping a dry cloth around the raw slice in her side. "They will not understand."

She blinks away from you, her attention focused elsewhere, but you know her mind is still on you, on your fingertips as they trail down her torso and press into her ribs. You know she feels pain. You know she wants to wince or cringe, and you wish she would. Not for your own gross satisfaction but for an indication of her progress.  

"Did you ever?"

You glance up from the bruises on her bare stomach and narrow your eyes on her. "Did I ever what?"

"Understand," she says, and she's looking down at you, her eyes clearer and greener now that the purple bruise encircling her left eye has turned yellow and mild.

You sigh and retract your hands, and she slumps forward, subconsciously chasing after your touch. The movement makes you want to cry, to hold her in your arms, to soothe her physical hurt as well as her emotional pain.

You understand. You understand more than anyone, but, "I wish I never had to."

//

You watch her around the village, how she tries to assimilate into society as a normal person, but she is not normal, and it's clear she's having a hard time learning how to do things that she never had any use for.

Lexa was trained to fight, to lead—not to milk cows, count chicken eggs, fill bags of grain, and definitely not to live for herself.

She gets frustrated at times, and you move to help her before catching yourself and returning to your own duties.

(You have others to heal, including yourself.)

She doesn't talk to many besides you. She eats alone, never dances with the rest of the villagers, passes on herb and cider, and then, at the end of the night, when everyone else is heading home with another person or two, Lexa goes back to her hut alone.

You don't want to, but you feel for her.

You may not understand every aspect of Lexa, but you can understand loneliness.

//

You don't mean for them to meet.

You don't mean for Lexa to meet any of your friends here. These are _your_ people. This is _your_ life. She has no right to cross your boundaries and enter your circle.

But you unintentionally give her the right. You allow her to eat with you, to work with you. You offer her drink, and you accidentally crack a smile when she takes a sip and crinkles her nose at the taste.

Eden approaches, two cups of cider in hand. She gives one to you and then shoots Lexa a wary look as she sits down on the log beside you. Lexa doesn't move, doesn't even look in Eden's direction, and you feel trapped, crushed between two heavy weights, one pulling you down and the other tugging you upward.

(You're uncertain of which is which.)

"Eden," you say to her, and then gesture to Lexa. "This is Bekka."

Eden nods in acknowledgement. "The lost traveler."

Lexa doesn't say anything and you don't expect her to. Eventually, Eden must grow uncomfortable with the silence; she clears her throat and then gets up to join the rest of the villagers in their nightly ritual of celebration and dance.

Somewhere along the way, you've gotten used to Lexa's inability to express herself through words—her silence speaks louder than anything she could ever say aloud.

Rare hesitation, and then Lexa side-eyes you. "Eden?" she says, and it's not so much an inquiry as it is a wondrous musing—maybe even a question of judgement concerning your choice of late night company.

"She's safe," you explain, tampering down your usual defenses.

Lexa looks down and stirs the cold porridge in her bowl. "And I?" she asks, but you don't know how to answer that, so you don't. "Eden is safe, Clarke, but The Garden has serpents, _distractions_. Do not eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, or you will see the truth."

You can't help but roll your eyes. "That is only historic folklore."

"Is that not what they will say of us, one day?" Lexa says, and it almost sounds like she's teasing you. You look over at her—there is a tiny smile on her lips, barely there, but then it's gone. She sighs, her eyes glancing up to take in the night sky, the shining stars that you used to call home. "Are you happy here, Clarke?"

You look around and wonder what happiness even means. "This place is a utopia compared to what I left behind," you whisper beneath the music, the beating drums in the distance as you watch your people stomp their feet and shake their bodies.

Lexa watches them as she always does, with confusion and misunderstanding. She doesn't get why your people celebrate—all she can see are the horrors of the world. You want to show her something more than the blood of war, death threats, struggles for power.

(You want to show her joy. You want to show her freedom.)

But Lexa will only see what she wants to see until she is truly free. "Utopias do not exist, Clarke," she says, peeling her eyes away from the gyrating bodies dancing around the fire—and perhaps she is right, about utopias and existence, but this is the closest you will ever come to one. "Utopias only ever work to distract from the real destruction of the world."

"You want to talk about the real destruction of the world, _Bekka_?" you say, slightly fed up with her 'woe is me' attitude. You take another gulp of cider and it feels good as it burns all the way down. "I had nightmares about you for two years straight. Since coming here, they've ceased, but just recently, they've begun again. Yet only when I am wide awake."

You look her in the eye, and you force her to understand your meaning. Lexa looks haunted by the very thought. "My presence here has been hard on you."

"You think?" you spit back at her.

"It pains me to know that my being here causes you distress," she whispers, refusing to break eye contact with you, "but I cannot lie and say that the discovery of your safety in The Garden has made me unhappy."

"This isn't a second chance, Lexa," you tell her, because it isn't.

Lexa flares her nostrils and breathes, "I know."

She whispers it, absolute and accepting, and then she stands, her bowl of unfinished porridge in hand. You stare up at her as she stares down at you like you're something she wants but can never have.

"Another chance would be my utopia, Clarke," she says, "but utopias do not exist."

//

Her bruises are disappearing. Her broken bones are mending. Her busted lip is healing. She is returning to the warrior you once knew, the one you met all those years ago in a glorious tent, sitting upon a mighty throne.

Today, instead of a throne, she sits on your operating table and clenches her jaw shut as you carefully redo one of her popped stitches. She doesn't say a word, just steadily breathes through her nose and focuses her attention on the wall.

"Does this hurt?" you ask.

"No."

Though her response is predictable, you still wonder what she's thinking; what's going on in that calculating mind of hers.

(You wonder if she's thinking about you.)

(You wonder why you even care.)

"It's okay to admit that it hurts, Lexa," you assure her, offering up a tentative smile. "It would actually be helpful if you exhibited pain so that I knew whether or not to up your meds."

Lexa's grip tightens around the edge of the table. "Your drugs make my head heavy, my thoughts unclear. I do not want anymore."

"Not even recreational?" you tease, but Lexa—always so strict, always so serious—doesn't find your joke very amusing.

"There is a difference between living peacefully and living carelessly, Clarke," she says, and you almost roll your eyes. "You have adopted the latter lifestyle in order to heal. We both have wounds—mine are just more visible."

You take a long look at her marred skin, at old scars that have replaced even older wounds. Even when healed, they are still visible— _always_ visible. "Brutal survival is not living," you counter, to distract yourself from the feel of her skin against your fingertips.

"I know this, Clarke."

You're skeptical, rightfully so. "Do you?"

Lexa nods. "It is the reason I am here now," she says, glancing down at your working hands. "Tell me, why are you here?"

You've asked yourself that same question hundreds of times since you decided to make this place your home.

Throughout the years, you've considered going home to your mother, to Raven and Bellamy, to Monty and Jasper, but then you close your eyes and see the agony of painful deaths; you smell the burning flesh of innocents, of mothers and children; you hear cries of terror, screaming out for you to help, _please_ _help_ , but you can't—you can't ease the pain because you're the one _causing_ the pain.

You live in peace, outwardly, but in your head, all you see is mayhem.

"My people are better off without me," you sigh, pausing in your task to look up at her. "Did you realize the same?"

Lexa remains as steady as always when she says, "I did not willingly leave my people, Clarke."

"Then why are you here?"

You're expecting a roundabout response, similar to what Lexa told Jenko and the rest of the villagers, but what you get is the immediate truth. "A group of rebels in Polis overthrew me as Heda," Lexa reveals, pressing her lips together when your hand slips on one of her stitches, "and tried to steal the Spirit of the Commander in my sleep."

You freeze, and when you look her in the eyes, you see her differently for the first time in weeks. Her bruises have a new meaning, and her struggle to survive is not disguised by pride but by a necessity to carry on.

You didn't know why she left Polis, why she was  even here in the first place, and you tried to tell yourself that you didn't care, but you do care.

The painful clench in your chest when you fully understand her aches, the devastation of unwillingly losing who you are—you understand, and you care a great deal more than you originally thought you ever could.

"An uprising? But w-why?" you stutter, grasping for answers. "I've seen the way your people look at you, Lexa. All they have is respect and love for you."

"My ambassadors, my generals, even Ti—" She stops herself and turns to face the wall again. "I presume it were those closest to me behind the coup after disagreeing with my unapologetic regime of blood must not have blood."

Your eyes narrow on her, almost disbelieving, because the words _jus drein jus daun_ , you remember all too clearly, the rapid chant in your ears, growing in numbers and rage, a chant led by none other than the young woman sitting before you.

Her change of heart catches you off guard, but for once you're hopeful that she's starting to meet you in the middle, as Jenko prophesied she would. "You changed your stance?"

Lexa lowers her eyes. "It is a very long story, Clarke," she says, but you're not going to be brushed off that easily.

"So what did you do? How did you get away?" you ask in a rapid fire, but Lexa only shifts away like this isn't something she really wants to talk about in depth, and you can understand that to some degree—after all, who would want to relive the moment they thought they were going to die?

You don't think Lexa's going to offer up anymore information, but then she halfway answers your questions with haunted eyes and a steady voice. "After just narrowly escaping an assassination attempt, I fled with Indra, Octavia, and Lincoln."

"Where are they now?" you wonder, your nerves on high-alert once you hear Octavia's name mentioned.

"I got separated from them during a raid on our camp." Lexa's jaw works rapidly, frustration and anger clearly building up after suppressing her rage for weeks. "We were on our way here to the Eastern Shore, to what I thought was a deserted village where no one has lived in decades. But it has been weeks and they have yet to arrive here."

Indra; Lincoln; _Octavia_ —names you haven't heard in years, and suddenly you're worried for them. You can only imagine how Lexa feels. "I'm sure they're fine," you say, trying to offer comfort in the only way you know how.

But Lexa only shakes her head and then pushes herself off of the operating table. "That is not something you can be sure of, Clarke," she says, turning to face you. "We can never be sure of anything in this life, not even death."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword." Matthew 10:34

Eden enters the infirmary as you're placing a bandage on a little boy's knee. He's missing his two front teeth, and when he smiles up at you, you're reminded again of why you heal, why you care.

"The lost traveler," Eden says, once the little boy bounds off to play with his friends. "You know her well, don't you?"

You sanitize your hands and then turn to Eden. You smirk at the redness in her cheeks—sunburn. "Only as well as anyone else here," you say, digging through your medical chest for a jar of salve.

"You knew her before she came here, is what I mean," Eden clarifies, and your defenses immediately go up like a steel fortress.

You don't owe Lexa anything, and she never asked you to keep her identity a secret, but you feel the need to protect her anyway.

When you fail to respond, Eden asks, "Who is she?"

"She's..." You search for words and come up short, "an old ally."

"One to trust?"

You shake your head. Not one to trust—not yet, at least—but she's definitely, "One to remember."

//

You've been spending more time with her, venturing closer than you've ever ventured in the past few weeks. You're hesitant to trust her, to confide in her, but something about her has always drawn you in, and you stop trying to fight it, just this once.

It's nights like this when you wish you were more like Lexa and listened to your head rather than your heart. But you are not like Lexa. Not in this regard. While Lexa would never bother you at a time like this, you quietly approach her hut, late into the night after sending Eden away.

You knock twice, and when Lexa answers, you know she's surprised to see you at her door, but she noticeably swallows her anxiety as she welcomes you inside.

Your advances are curious but innocent. You know she wants you, still, and you know she would welcome you into her bed if given the opportunity, but you remain by the door, waiting for her to speak first.

"You are sleeping with her," Lexa whispers, and those words, you do not expect. Lexa is not one to admit her fears. She does not open up about how she feels, or why she feels them, but maybe you're different—maybe you're the exception.

"You're jealous," you say, circling around her to head into her room.

When you sit cross-legged on her cold floor, Lexa follows suit, crouches down carefully beside you with a poorly concealed wince, and then slowly relaxes back against her bed. "I am observant," she counters, just barely brushing her shoulder against your own. "Eden has feelings for you, Clarke."

Her touch burns, but you think you might like it. "As you once did, if I recall."

You're expecting a slow nod, or perhaps nothing at all. You're challenging her. You're putting her emotions on full display for her to either confirm or deny.

(Lexa does neither.)

All she does is bow her head and whisper, "You speak in the past tense, Clarke."

Your chest caves in when you reply, "You are my past, Lexa."

//

With cold, metal shackles wound tightly around her wrists and ankles, jangling and clacking against one another, her once-loyal guards march her out, a long and embarrassing walk from the tower to the guillotine.

Once, a long time ago, they ruled out instruments of torture, but now they're back again, here to take a wise leader who only wanted to spread peace.

She walks slowly, with her head held high, as her people watch her on the road to her death. They watch quietly, remorsefully, eyes lowered in shame for standing by and allowing this mutiny to take place.

You want to yell out, to scream, to save her like she saves you, like she saves all of her people, but you don't. You only watch and stand by, tears burning down your cheeks as they lie her head under the blade and—

" _Lexa_ ," you choke, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes snap open and adjust to the darkness surrounding you.

Eden mumbles something beside you, but she doesn't awaken, and so you quietly wipe the sweat from your forward and roll over in bed with images of death flashing behind your eyelids.

//

You're used to being alone. You were locked up in solitary confinement for a year on the Ark. You trekked through the forest for another year with nothing but your demons and nightmares as company.

You lived alone, slept alone, ate alone, and you thought you were going to die alone before you found this place.

But you are not alone. Lexa is with you, sitting in the sand under the hot sun as you watch the waves hit the shore, your eyes blank and red-rimmed from staring.

Every time you shut your eyes, flashes of your nightmare appear behind your lids—flashes of Lexa, strong but helpless, bloodied and headless—and the prospect of that very possible reality shakes you to your core.

"Why did you do it?" you ask, tucking your hands underneath the warm sand to hide how they shake. "Why risk your life to rule in opposition of your people's beliefs?"

Lexa doesn't answer you at first. You look over at her, and she's just as entranced by the ocean as you are.

Her eyelids are heavy, and she looks just about ready to fall asleep when she says, "It hurt to make rational decisions around you, Clarke." She swallows thickly and then digs her heels into the sand to make herself less bare in her honesty. "Being a ruthless commander did not come easily, regardless of my feelings. Coupled with that, it was almost impossible."

You release a ragged sigh and try not to get worked up, but it's too late. That word— _impossible_ —doesn't sit right with you. "Didn't seem too hard for you to make the _rational_ decisions last time we saw each other," you mutter, swiping your hair out of your face when a gust of wind blows.

"It was nothing personal, Clarke," she says, and she looks at you earnestly, as if that will make you feel better.

It doesn't. "After you kissed me in your tent, Lexa, it was nothing _but_ personal."

You can't count the amount of times you've thought of that kiss. It used to keep you up at night, even more than your demons on some occasions. You'd overanalyze her kiss to the point of obsession, wondering how someone with such a level-head could do something so reckless in the heat of war.

You've wondered what went through her mind when your lips touched, whether she was relieved or terrified, how she felt when you kissed her back—if it made her regret her decision, or if it only made her want to kiss you again.

Lexa looks you in the eye but doesn't say anything, and it really pisses you off—how poised she can be at a time like this.

"Why?" you ask her.

"Why—"

"Why did you kiss me?"

Lexa's cheeks visibly color. She presses her lips together and looks away. "I am fairly certain you are aware of the reason."

"Am I?" you push, and Lexa nods, that slow tilt of her head, the one that drives you absolutely insane.

You're tired of her walls, her defenses. You're done with her non-answers. You want emotion. You want fire. You want to test her, push her, and so you stand to your knees in the sand and then slip onto Lexa's lap before she can pull away.

Her hands fly up, sand raining over you, and you narrow your eyes challengingly when her breath hitches.

"What are you doing, Clarke?" she says, her chest puffed out, her chin tilted upward, regal and sharp. Her appearance tells the lie that you have no effect on her, but you can feel the truth in her body now that you're straddling her hips, and she's shaking.

"I'm giving you what you wanted that day in your tent," you tell her, and then grind down in her lap. "But since you refuse to tell me, I'll just have to guess. This _is_ what you wanted, right?"

Her mouth parts, but she doesn't confirm nor deny. Her eyes lower, and then so do her arms, hesitant hands caressing your face like you're made of heaven, fingertips tentative but hopeful as she traces and memorizes your features.

"But things have since changed," she tells you, regretfully.

"What's changed?"

"You _know_ , Clarke." It's the truth, yes, but you don't know why she says it. Her voice, full of metal, full of steel, only makes you want her more.

" _Tell_ me."

Lexa swallows, hard. "Clarke."

"Say it, Lexa," you push and push and _push_ , "because I'm not going to."

"I left you," she chokes out, hot tears flooding her eyes. A stiff silence follows her pronouncement, and you thought hearing her sins out loud would make you feel better, but all you feel is cold and numb, empty. "I am not proud of that decision, Clarke, but it had to be done. You know that. You understand."

"I do, Lexa," you sympathize, closing your eyes as you rest your forehead against hers, "which is why I need to forget."

You wish to forget a lot of things, but more than your own nightmares, you wish to forget hers—forget her sorrow, forget her pain, forget the people who have hurt her, forget the horrors and agony they have put her heart and body through.

(You're so messed up that you don't even know who you're angry with—her or yourself. Who do you wish to forget—her or yourself? Who do you want to hurt—her or _yourself?_ )

Lexa presses into you, her hands cradling your chin and keeping you steady. "There is no way to forget, Clarke."

"But I can try."

As if burnt, she snatches her hands away. You know she equates forgetting pain with forgetting her, but you have no time to ease her fears before she asks, "If I say no—if I refuse, will you go to Eden instead?"

She's always asking a question within a question, and you catch on immediately this time. "Are you more afraid of me going to Eden," you wonder, your breath hot against her cheek, "or my leaving you as you once left me?"

Lexa pulls away angrily and lets out a frustrated breath as she draws you off of her lap and back into the sand. It's the most emotion you've seen in her since your shared kiss three years ago. This is the most emotion you've _ever_ seen, and it burns a fire in your chest. You want to see more, but Lexa only stares at you before looking away.

You place a hand on Lexa's cheek to draw her attention back to you. "Lexa."

Her green eyes water and shine against the gleam of the sun. "I would not blame you, Clarke," she whispers, her voice steady. "Eden is safe."

Her response bothers you—how easily she gives in, gives up; it bothers you more than you can express. "You say you know nothing but fighting," you remind her, crouching down, willing her to look at you. She squints at the sun and meets your eyes, and you plead, "Fight for _me_."

"I did, Clarke."

"You didn't!" Rage consumes you, and you feel like exploding. You climb to your feet, but Lexa remains kneeled in the sand, staring up at you as a single tear flows down her cheek. "You didn't fight, Lexa. Yes, I was angry that you left, but I was even angrier that you never came back."

"Clarke," she begs.

"You said you cared, but you never came for me," you sneer, throwing her lies back into her face. "I didn't stay in the fucking wilderness for a whole year just for fun, Lexa. I waited and I waited until I got tired of waiting and found this place. My safe haven. My refuge from _you_."

Lexa blinks, and it's that quick; her expression changes, from overwhelming dismay to confusion, but then a sudden look of realization falls across her usually pragmatic features.

Her eyebrows knit as she freezes in place and stares dead at you. "You waited for me," she whispers, mostly to herself, her bottom lip trembling with the pain of this discovery. Lexa deflates on her haunches and slumps down in the sand. "You waited for me, while I wasted three years of my life on a devious lie constructed only to destroy me."

"Lexa," you whisper, your voice swallowed up by the sound of the rushing waves. You kneel down in front of her, but her eyes won't meet yours. They dart back and forth at the sand, and then those green eyes bore deep into your own again. "What are you talking about?"

Her face crumbles, and it all seems to hit her at once—the truth; what she's _really_ been running from. "I didn't come for you, Clarke," she says, clenching her hands into fists, "because I was mourning your death."

You squint your eyes, the fire in your chest burning out with the depth of your confusion. "My death?"

She nods, but unlike usual; no more calm and steady tilt—this time, _frantic_. "After my departure from the mountain, I sent out my best scouts and warriors to search for you," she explains desperately, pleading with you to understand. "I even set out myself to make sure you were safe, to bring you to Polis, but I never found you."

Your mouth moves, but no words come out until you catch your breath and say, "What—so you just figured I was dead?"

Lexa shakes her head and swipes away at her tears; sand sprinkles and sticks across the bridge of her nose. "Titus," she sneers, a name unfamiliar to you. "It was he who delivered the news that you were dead, mauled by a panther in the woods beyond recognition."

This is a lot of information, all at once, and you struggle to keep up with what Lexa's telling you, what it all means—some devious conspiracy to dethrone her? Some elaborate plan to uncover her weakness?

You don't know what to think, what to say, but Lexa speaks again before you can even get a chance to express your loose thoughts. "After that, I vowed to live and rule in your name, Clarke, a risky tactic that Titus didn't take too kindly to," she sighs and bows her head. "The rebellion began a year later."

"It was him," you whisper, catching up to what's being said.

Lexa nods again, her lips trembling. "As soon as I saw that you were alive, I immediately knew that Titus had lied to me—that he was behind the coup." She scoots forward in the sand and hesitates before taking your hands. "But what I didn't know was that you had waited for me. In my heart, you were never dead, Clarke, but here, _now_ —I didn't want to assume you felt the same way."

Your breathing falters as you're put directly on the spot, but it's now or never, so you lick your dry lips and somehow find the confidence to say, "Death is not the end, Lexa," because she'll never be dead to you, and it's the honest to god truth—no matter how much you once hated yourself for feeling that way, loathed yourself for still desperately wanting someone who had left you behind.

"Clarke, you must know," she says, leaning into you and lowering her voice to whisper, to beg you to understand, "If I knew you were still out there—if I had thought there was any hope at all, I would have never stopped looking for you."

"I know," you say, and you honestly do. You once called her a hypocrite, a liar, but she's never been anything but honest with you about who she is and her intentions.

(You, however—)

She smiles tentatively, but it's a genuine smile that reaches her eyes, and you can't help but smile too. Everything is a mess, and who knows what's going on in Polis, in Camp Jaha, but in this moment, neither of you are thinking about politics or war or revenge.

You're thinking about each other.

You had thought she'd given up on you. You thought she left you behind. But to learn of her loyalty, her tenacity to find you, how she set out  herself to search for you, how she regretted her old ways and led in your name after the false news of your death—it fills you with a hot liquid that makes you melt, and suddenly you're overwhelmed with an honest need to have her.

It's not about pride anymore, or easing pain, or forgetting nightmares. It's about you and her, and so you lean forward, and you kiss her. She hesitates, for a beat, but then slowly allows the touch of your lips, relinquishes control and kisses you back with a raw hunger that burns in your stomach all the way down to your toes.

You kiss her in the sand until the moon rises, and then you kiss her some more.

//

The water from the stream rushes slowly beside you on this hot day, and you consider going in for a dip as you dust pieces of charcoal off of your sketchpad. You consider inviting Lexa in with you, and you smirk at the idea of her shedding her clothes to join you in the gentle rush of the stream. You think of her wet skin, the way the water would trickle around her shoulders, down her back, and then into—

"Clarke of the Sky People."

Those words sound odd coupled with that voice. You turn your head and it's Eden, with her speckled freckles and her dirty blonde hair, and she's beautiful, so so beautiful, but not beautiful like Lexa.

"How did you find out?" you sigh, shockingly underwhelmed by her discovery.

"We may live on the outskirts of any hostile activity, but that doesn't mean word can't get around," she says, plopping down on the log beside you. You bite your lip and tear your focus away from your sketch of deep green eyes to find Eden looking dead into your own. "When we welcome people in, we also welcome their stories, but some of their tales have included you and Heda, _together_. Leksa kom Trikru, yes?"

She takes a look at your sketch and then stares out at the rushing water of the stream, but you do not try to hide your drawing. Lexa is on your mind, in your heart, and here, in this place, you have learned not to hide.

Eden must sense your uneasiness because she smiles reassuringly and then gently knocks her knee against yours. "Do not worry, Clarke. You are not the first to come here and change your name. My real name is not Eden," she reveals, shrugging a shoulder. "Jenko's real name is not Jenko. He was a personal guard for the commander before Lexa, if you can believe it. This place is where we leave our ghosts of the past behind, but it is okay if your ghosts follow you sometimes."

"Even if my ghost happens to be living?" you wonder, and you think of nightmares and demons and failing to leave the past behind.

You think of how your past is inescapable—how she follows you, and how you're not so sure you would mind if she followed you all the way to the ends of this earth.

For a beat, Eden contemplates. "You love this ghost?"

You do not contemplate. You know, and so you say, "I do."

Eden bows her head, and it's clear that she's hurt, but she sucks it up and then whispers, "Not all of us are given that chance—so yes, Clarke, _especially_ if she lives."

//

You find her where you last saw her. She stands with her feet in the water, watching as the sun sets on the horizon. You step up beside her and take her hand in yours, ravel your fingers together tightly.

Lexa only continues to stare out at the ocean, unblinkingly. "I can't have wants, Clarke."

You sigh because you know that. You know she's been thinking about your kiss, just as you have, but while you've been over the moon about it, Lexa's been inside that strategic head of hers. She may be away from her people, off her throne, but she is still a leader, and there are things leaders must sacrifice for the greater good.

But that doesn't mean you can't imagine. "If you could," you broach hesitantly, "what would you want?"

You're expecting her to say you, but you never do get what you expect when it comes to Lexa. "I'd want redemption," she says, barely above a whisper, and the tone of her voice, that low and dark quality, sends a shiver down your spine.

You stare at her, oddly disappointed. "Don't let the deception of others bring out the cruelty in you," you plead, tightening your grip on her hand when she tries to pull away. "You are better than that, Lexa. You've worked so hard to be better than that."

Tears spring to your eyes when you see her struggling to find the right words. Eventually she does and says, "To kill my weakness, they killed you, Clarke, but their plan backfired. I only got weaker."

"You got stronger," you counter, pulling on her arm so that she will face you. You see her eyes, green and bright despite the darkness warring against the light in her heart, and you tell her, "It takes pure strength and courage to change one hundred years of morbid tradition, Lexa."

She clenches her jaw, grinds her molars, and you can almost feel the rage in her blood radiating off her skin. "The person I trusted most was the one who lied to me, turned my people against me, and tried to have me assassinated," she says, grasping on harder to your sweaty palm. "Are these not my past sins coming back to haunt me, Clarke? Do I no longer deserve loyalty after every cruel action I have taken in the name of peace?"

Your heart breaks when you see the tears in her eyes. "You deserve everything good," you say, and you mean it. She deserves so much more than what she's been given in this brutal world. She deserves life and freedom and happiness and _love_. "But we don't always get what we deserve."

She takes a deep breath and tries to blink the tears away, but more and more only build up until she can no longer contain them. "How about what my people deserve?" she whispers, but you don't know how to answer that, so you lean your head on her shoulder, and you breathe out a sigh against her hot skin.

Her entire body shudders, and when you look up at her, you almost crumble at what you see.

For the first time, she sobs, openly and unafraid, and so you take her into your arms, you cradle her head against your shoulder, and you lower her into the sand with you, hot under the blazing sun, and you promise to never let go.

//

Lexa is only human, but she was once a ruler, and in her mind, she still is—a leader with no one to lead. She's lost her title, her throne, her home, her purpose, her people, and now she understands you as you once understood her.

(You never wished for her to understand you.)

She doesn't speak to you, or anyone else, for three days, and you respect her decision to be alone and meditate in peace. She finishes her healing on her own, allowing her fractured ribs to mend, her shallow gashes to close, her split lip to seal.

You do not disturb her, but you do worry like you've never before worried for another person.

Lexa does this to you—she drives you crazy as you make yourself sick over what she's thinking, how she's feeling.

She almost drives you to the edge of madness, but you just barely catch yourself before falling over.

//

Word gets out and around, as Eden warned it would.

As Lexa walks around the village, people look at her differently now—not with fear, or animosity, or anguish, but they look at her as if she's this peaceful leader they've been waiting for; a savior sent to deliver hope.

They look at her the way you've always looked at her, and your heart swells in your chest, too big and too proud to breathe.

Indeed, the stories of Lexa that travel throughout the land only speak of her goodness, of her will to spread peace, her stance of _jus drein no jus daun_ , and this is something that the people of The Garden openly welcome.

They look up to her now, a new people who want what she wants, who believe what she believes—people who do not wish to fight, only to live, to _love_.  

Before the Ark, before the end times, before the radiation, people on the ground believed in religions unlike the Greek mythologies in your history textbook. The whole idea of a savior, of a higher being, had always seemed utterly foolish, but now that you know Lexa and all she stands for, the reality of what you used to consider foolish may not be so foolish after all.  

Jenko has to see it for himself, days later, in a great meeting where men, women, and children alike join to witness the revealed truth of a long suspected rumor.

 _Read all about it_ , they once said, long ago— _Heda is alive, and she wants peace!_

"Leksa kom Trikru, you believe in blood must not have blood," Jenko says, challenging Lexa, testing Lexa, "Is this true?"

Lexa accepts the challenge and steps up. She stands before the villagers, her face highlighted by the gleam of a burning fire. "I believe revenge and hatred are not ways in which to live. Life comes from love, not grief," she says, her eyes scanning the crowd. When they land on you, your heart skips a beat. "Someone special taught me that."

Jenko considers this. "One cannot be taught how to love."

"Yes," Lexa nods, "but one can always relearn."

//

You're thinking about her, and you can't think about anything else, and you wonder if she's thinking about you, and you don't hate yourself for those thoughts anymore.

She consumes you, in every way, and when you close your eyes, all you can see is her. You used to call them nightmares, bad dreams, but now you know that these musings are not a curse.

You welcome thoughts of her, because for once in your life, this feeling makes you want to fly rather than cry. You want to find her, to go out and search for her, but Lexa beats you to it when she comes to you first, late at night, many hours after the sun has set.

You have been wanting her for hours upon hours, but now that she stands in front of you, open and wondering, still and complete, you have no idea what to do, what to say.

Lexa only looks at you, her beautiful lips sealed, and you want to kiss them, so you do. This time, Lexa doesn't hesitate in her reciprocation as you lead her into the next room, and _this is it_ , you think, when her tongue greets yours and you fall back against the bed with her on top of you, but then a ragged sigh is released—you don't know whether it comes from you or her—as you're left stone cold and alone when Lexa pulls away from you and breathes, "I can't."

You're so close to her, and all you want is to get closer. "Lexa," you groan, pressing in more so that she'll truly understand what she's about to give up.

"I want to be yours, Clarke," she tells you, and it's the most profound thing you've ever heard, "but I—"

"But you belong to your people, I know," you sigh, starting to sit up, but Lexa only nuzzles her nose into your neck and leaves a soft kiss there.

You want her—you want her more than you could ever express with words, and you're hoping she is weak for once, weak for you, but Lexa only presses her lips to your skin and whispers, "As of right now, I belong to no one."

While you couldn't agree more with those words, it surprises you how much they hurt to hear. "Not even me?" you can't help but ask.

Lexa swipes the strands of your blonde hair to the side with a frown. "I was born to protect, but my people want me dead," she sighs, her voice rough as she desperately tries to swallow her tears. "Now that word is spreading that I live, the rebels will come to finish me off, so you see, Clarke—if I cannot protect you, I am nothing."

You clench your fists around your sheets, because once again— _again_ —her people come between you and her, and your happiness together.

Her ambassadors, her generals, her warriors, _Titus_ ; those fucking rebels, those devious traitors—most would call them ungrateful. They never did deserve Lexa, not as their leader, not as a woman, not even as a human being. They took her loyalty for granted. They blamed her for their sins, guilted her for justified actions taken with only the deepest of regrets, judged her for her sacrifices, deemed her weak for her mercies, and betrayed her trust, her entire life of service, by leaving her to die in the woods, alone and afraid.

You want to hate her people, but you could never hate something that Lexa loves so deeply.

You tangle your fingers in the braids of her hair, and you tug her closer, but when Lexa only looks down and doesn't meet your eyes, you know there's something she's not telling you.

In the stiff silence of your room, it should have been obvious why she has come to you so late at night, but it doesn't hit you until this very moment. "You came to say goodbye, didn't you?" you ask her, willing away a river of tears when you see the deep regret on her face. "You were always leaving."

"The only reason I stayed this long was because of you, Clarke," she says, swiping your tears away with her thumb when they start to fall, "but you must understand that leaving is the only way to keep you safe."

"Fuck my safety," you yell, not caring who hears or whom you awaken. She needs to hear this, and so you give up your pride and you plead with her. "Please don't do this, Lexa."

(Not again.)

"Stay here," you say. "With us."

_(With me.)_

Lexa cradles your chin in her hand, and she looks deep into your eyes, and when you see those green hazels, you're calm again. Nothing else on this planet can do this to you, can hypnotize you in this way, and you know that means you love her.

But Lexa only shakes her head and whispers, "The people here do not need me, Clarke."

You hate it when she's right, but while you truly do understand, you also wish things were different—for a short moment in time, you wish she was selfish; you wish she wasn't a leader; you wish she was free to be with you in the way you both deserve.

You want to tell her that the people here may not need her, but that doesn't mean you don't. "Lexa," you say instead, stroking her cheek and underneath her eye where a dark bruise used to be. Now, there is nothing but beautifully tan skin, so you place a soft kiss there, your lips lingering when Lexa leans further into the touch.

"Now that I am healed and capable of surviving in the wilderness, I must find Indra, Lincoln, and Octavia," Lexa explains, but she doesn't want to go—you can tell by the way she holds on to you, by the way she says your name, by the way she looks deep into your eyes. But Lexa is strong and wise and a leader, first and foremost, and so she must go, despite what she wants. "After I know they are safe, I must return to Polis to take back my throne."

You want to hate her for leaving, for walking away like she did the last time, but you can't. Instead, you admire her for choosing her people, for choosing to lead them peacefully, for not giving up on them like she never gave up on you.  

She doesn't say it because she's Lexa, but you know she loves you. You hear it in every word she says to you, and you especially feel it when she places her hands on your hips and squeezes. "Before, I left you to die," she says, nudging her nose against your own, "but this time, I shall leave you to live."

Lexa's always been good with words, poetic and true in her final goodbye, but you're not ready to hear it.

You want more time. You want to hold her closer, and you want to touch her longer, and you want to kiss her deeper. You're not ready to see her walk through your door for the last time, not yet, not ever, because who knows if you'll ever see her again.

"If you must go," you whisper, grazing your lips against hers, "leave me in the morning."

Lexa tries to fight off a coy smile and fails. "Clarke—"

"Leave me," you repeat, shutting her up with a kiss that is deeper, fuller than the last, "in the morning."

You're expecting her to separate from you, to deny you, to walk away with one more kiss and never return, and you think she almost does.

She looks at you, for a long time, as if trying to memorize every feature, every speck of color in your eyes before she leaves you for good, but then her lips are on your lips again, hungrier this time, and her hands are burning a hot path down your waist and under your clothes, and you groan into her mouth, sinking deeper and deeper into the kiss as you melt against her.

Lexa is the commander; Lexa is the leader; Lexa is the goddess amongst your people here, but in this glorious moment, she worships you like you're her everything, and you make love to her well into the night, like it's the first time, like it's the last time, because it very might well be.

//

Jenko is the type of person who rarely gets serious unless he has to.

When he laughs, his belly shakes. When he smiles, he strokes his long, gray beard. But when he comes looking for you in the infirmary, you can tell by the grave look on his face that he has something important to say, and that you should listen.

"Leksa kom Triku has just said her final goodbyes after thanking me for the villages' hospitality," he informs you, looking around the room. "But I do wonder where it is that Heda will venture next on her journey."

You sigh because this isn't really something you want to talk about—Lexa leaving you, Lexa heading back into danger, Lexa risking her life for people who don't deserve her leadership, her kindness, her beautiful heart—but Jenko is waiting for an answer, and so you stop what you're doing and turn to him.

"After locating her warriors, the Commander will head back to Polis to reclaim her throne and bring peace to the twelve clans," you explain to him, as if you're reading instructions off of a piece of paper rather than describing the next phase of Lexa's life, but you're just so tired, so drained this morning after watching her leave your bed and then walk out of your door—out of your life.

"So she is going on a quest of redemption while you stay behind?" Jenko asks, and the question baffles you.

He makes it sound like you have a choice in the matter, like you _want_ her to leave you. He says it like you're willingly staying behind, but you're actually doing it because, "Lexa wants me to live."

"But is living without love really living?" Jenko wonders aloud, and you silently wonder the same.

In the chaos of worrying about Lexa's fight, you've somehow managed to lose your own. You've lost your will to see past the serene haze, to ignore the snakes of The Garden and follow your heart—even if your heart may never be the safest place to go.

"Only so many people understand both pain and love," Jenko reminds you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Meet her in the middle, Clarke. Perhaps she'll be there waiting."

//

And she is there waiting, in the stables, preparing the horse she arrived on for her journey.

You know she sees you watching her from the entrance of the stablehouse—she's a warrior; she's aware and ready at all times—but she lets you look on for a while, and you appreciate the gesture before making your presence known.

"I'm coming with you," you say, but when you see the confusion in her eyes, you realize that those are not a group of words Lexa hears very often, if ever at all, and it hurts you to learn that no one has ever offered to stay with her out of any other form besides duty.

Lexa doesn't seem to know how to respond at first, her hands frozen against the mane of her black horse. Her wide eyes trail over the rucksack hitched on your back as she says, "Clarke, you can't."

You know she's leaving for you, that she doesn't want you to come along for your own safety. She said it all last night—how much she wants you to live, and how much she'll give up to let that happen.

But you can be just as stubborn as her. "Don't tell me what I can and cannot do, Lexa," you say, moving across the stables to ready your own horse.

She shuffles her feet in the hay with legs that used to barely be able to walk. She looks at you with eyes that used to be bruised, and she sighs heavily through lips that used to be busted. You've nursed her back to health, mended her body, and hopefully her heart too. Lexa looks whole again, on the outside, and so do you, but you want to make sure that she's never broken on the inside again.

And you know that with just one touch of her hand on yours that Lexa feels the same way. "But what about your sanctuary, your utopia?" she asks, glancing over your shoulder at a place you will soon call your past. Lexa's eyes are heavy with meaning when she adds, "What about your Eden?"

"Eden is safe, but Eden is not you," you say, tilting your head a little to catch her gaze, "and I want _you_ , Lexa."

She looks at you like she's seeing heaven, and you're sure that a similar expression falls over your features when her soft lips meet yours and kiss you like she wants to live forever.

She was almost killed, and while you were dead in her mind, you were always alive in her heart.  You're together now, more alive than you'll ever be, and it's better than any drunken haze or fuzzy trip, because it's _real_.

Lexa is real; you can feel just how real she is against your lips, and even though you both have a long and tedious journey ahead of you, physically and emotionally, you are somehow excited and ready for this ride.

(Because it is a ride you'll be taking together.)


End file.
